Hetty Marvin

When the British and Tories attacked Now London, Connecticut, in 17__, and set a price on the head of Governor Griswold, the latter fled to the town of L____, where his cousin, Mrs. Martin, hid him for some days in the secluded farmhouse. But at length the subtle foe discovered his retreat, and one sunny afternoon in May he was routed from his hiding-place by the tidings that a band of horsemen were approaching to capture him.

His only chance of escape was to reach the mouth of a little creek which emptied itself into the Connecticut River, just above the entrance of the latter into Long Island Sound. There he had a boat stationed, with two faithful attendants hidden beneath the high banks of the creek.

The distance from the farmhouse to the boat was two miles of the usual traveled road. But a little path across the farmer's orchard would bring him to the road, only a mile from the boat, and save a quarter's length of his fearful run for life.

Just where the narrow path from the orchard opened into the road, Hetty Marvin sat bleaching her household linen. The long web of forty yards or more, which was diligently spun and woven during the long Winter months, was whitened in May, and thus made ready for use.

The business of bleaching was well economized, being usually done by the younger daughters of the family, who were not old enough to spin, or strong enough for the heavier work of the kitchen or the dairy.

The roll of linen was taken by the farmer or his stout “help” to a grassy plot beside a spring or meadow-brook. There it was thoroughly wetted and spread upon the green turf, to take the best heat of the sun by day and the dew by night. The little maiden who tended it would sit near it.

Thus sat Hetty Marvin, the young daughter of Governor Griswold's cousin, when her hunted friend sprang past her into the road to escape his pursuers. Hetty was a timid child of about twelve years, yet thoughtful and wise beyond any of her elders. She was frightened by the headlong haste with which the governor rushed across the meadow. But she quickly comprehended the scene, and instantly quieted her faithful Towser, who, though a friend of the family guest, thought it becoming to bark loudly at his hurried steps.

Her wise forethought arrested the governor's notice, and suggested a scheme to delude his pursuers.

“Hetty,” he said, “I am flying for my life: and unless I can reach my boat before I am overtaken, I am a lost man. You see the road forks here. But you must tell those who are chasing me that I have gone up the road to catch the mail-wagon, which will soon be along, you know. Then they will turn off the other way.”

“Oh, cousin!” said the little girl, in an agony of distress. “I cannot tell a lie; indeed I cannot. Why did you tell which way you were going!”

“Hetty, child, surely you would not betray me to my death? Hark! they are coming — I hear the click of their horses' feet. Oh, Hetty, tell them I have gone up the road instead of down, and heaven will bless you.”

“Heaven never blesses those who speak falsely, cousin. But I will not tell them which way you go, even if they kill me; so run as quickly as possible.”

“It's of no use. Unless I can deceive them I am a dead man.”

“Cousin, cousin, hide under my web of cloth; they'd never think of looking here for you. Come, get down as swiftly as you can, and I'll cover you, and stand sprinkling my linen.”

Angry that their expected prey had escaped from the house where they hoped to secure him, the six mounted Tories, headed by a British officer, dashed along the road in swift pursuit. At sight of the girl in the meadow, the leader of the party paused.

“Child,” he said, sternly, “have you seen a man running hereabouts?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Hetty, trembling and flushing.

“Which way aid he go?”

“I promised not to tell, sir.”

“But you must, or take the consequences.”

“I said I wouldn't tell, if you killed me,” sobbed the frightened girl.

“I'll have it out of her!” exclaimed the furious officer, with an oath.

“Let me speak to her,” said his Tory guide. "I know the child, I believe. Isn't your name Hetty Marvin?" he asked, pleasantly.

“Yes, sir.”

“And this man that ran by you a few minutes ago was your mother's cousin, wasn't he?”

“Yes, sir, he was.”

“Well, we are friends of his. What did he say to you when he came along?”

“He — told me — that he was flying for his life.”

“Just so, Hetty: that was very true. I hope he won't have to fly far. Were was he going to hide? You see, I could help him if I knew his plans.”

Now, Hetty was not a whit deceived by this smooth speech. But she was willing to tell as much of the truth as would consist with his safety, and she judged that her frankness would serve her kinsman better than her silence, so she answered her questioner candidly:

“My cousin said he was going down to the river, where he had a boat, and wanted me to tell the men that were chasing him that he had gone the other way, to catch the mail-wagon.”

“Why didn't you do as he told you, then, when I asked you where he had gone?” thundered the officer, fiercely.

“I could not tell a lie, sir,” was the tearful answer.

“Hetty,” again began the smooth-tongued Tory, “you are a nice child. Everybody knows you are a girl of truth. What did your cousin say when you told him you could not tell a falsehood?”

“He said he shouldn't think I'd betray him to his death.”

“And then you promised him that yon wouldn't tell which way he went if you were killed for it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was brave; and I suppose he thanked yon for it, and ran down the road as quickly as possible.”

“I promised not to tell where he went, sir.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Well, tell us his last words, and we won't trouble you any more.”

“His last words were, ‘It’s my only chance, child, and I'll get down as you say.’”

And, overcome with fright and the sense of her kinsman's danger, should they rightly interpret the language which she had reported, she sobbed aloud, and hid her face from sight.

Her tormenters did not stay longer to soothe or question her. They all immediately pushed rapidly on down to the river.

Now the governor had arranged a signal with his boatmen that a white cloth by day, or a light by night, displayed from the attic-window of his hiding-place, which was just visible at the mouth of the river, should inform them if he were in trouble, and put them on the alert to help him.

As soon, therefore, as he started from his cousin’s, it floated from the window to warn them. And when they saw the pursuing party dash madly down the road to the river, and recognized the British uniform of the leaders, they pulled swiftly out to sea. The horsemen reached the shore only in season to see the boat with two men in it nearly out of sight, and, supposing their destined prey had escaped, relinquished the pursuit.

Meanwhile the victim lay safe and quiet where the shrewdness of the little cousin had hidden him. until the time came for her return for supper. Then he bade her go as usual to her home, telling her to ask her mother to place the signal-lamp as soon as it grew dark in the window for the boatmen, and send him there some supper, with his valise, which, in the hurry of his departure, he had left behind.

The signal recalled the boat, which after twilight had ventured in sight of the shore and the farmhouse, and the governor quietly made his way to the river in safety. When he rejoined his father in a secure home, he named his infant daughter, which had been born in his absence, “Hetty Marvin,” that he might be daily reminded of the little cousin whose truth and shrewdness saved his life.

SOURCES:  The Union Sentinel, Osceola, Iowa, Saturday, October 17, 1862, p. 1 in which the beginning portion of this article was hidden in the binding, and the lower portion of the first column was missing.  I used Frank Leslie's Pleasant Hours, Volume 21, No. 1, August 1876, p. 113-4 to reconstruct the article.

Renny’s Uniform

‘What is your name?’ asked Renny Page of a poor boy he had met one cold morning with bare feet bleeding from chestnut burs.

‘It’s George,’ was the answer.

‘Now, George, I’m a soldier and I ought to know how to help you; you put your arm around me and I’ll carry you – only you mustn’t cry, because I shall cry too, and then we won’t ever get up the hill.  My goodness! What a thin coat you’ve got on – it’s no thicker than I wear in dog days; haven’t you got a thick coat, one ever so thick like mine?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve got a comforter and a cap with fur around it, and all over the ears?’

‘No.’

‘But it’s too late for any boys to go barefoot; why didn’t you put on your thick boots to-day; I declare it’s real cold – and then you wouldn’t have got into our burs.  We’ve been up on the hill, playing battle and charging the big chestnuts, and when we came down we gathered all the burs together, and thought we’d be very good, better than the rebels are, and bury the killed and wounded, so we put them all in a pile and threw a mess of leaves over them, and then we marched away.  I’m real sorry; but the rebels are always in mischief, and can’t stay dead.  There’s their big president, Mr. Davis; he died a great while ago; ever so many people saw him lying, all laid out just as if he was a good man, but he’s come to life again, and isn’t a bit better than he used to be; and then there’s that other fellow, out West, Gen. Mc–Mc– I can’t think his name – but he’s been killed in battle ever so many times, but some how, up he gets again when there’s anybody to fight, and goes at it.  See here, George! Maybe that’s the kind your father died.’

‘No, ’tisn’t,’ said George; ‘my father wasn’t a rebel, and our soldiers don’t sham that way.’

‘I didn’t think of that,’ said Renny, ‘but there is the fence – we’ve got so far; and now you wait when you get most over, and I’ll lift you down.’

‘You can’t – I shall throw you over.’

‘Nonsense! Didn’t I tell you I was a soldier, and soldiers have to lift and dig, and do everything.  Come on now; I am stronger than I ever was before; and Renny managed it so that George landed safely and got up the hill.  It was quite dark then, and Renny’s mother had put her hat and shawl on, and come out of the house to search for Renny.  She met him and asked ‘Why, Renny, where have you been?’

‘Busy, mother, bringing in the wounded; have you got a hospital here? ‘cause I found a boy with his feet full of chestnut burs, and he can’t walk without most killing himself; and he’s cold, and may be hungry; and, mother’ – Renny whispered this, going quite close to his mother – ‘his father is dead, killed in that battle you read about this morning, at the Ferry.’

‘Come in,’ kindly said Renny’s mother; and she helped the boy in, and tended to his bleeding feet as tenderly as if he had been her Renny.  After the sharp points had been removed she fitted his feet with stockings and shoes that had long been unused, for the feet that wore them had gone forever out of her home, and her mother-heart listened vainly through the years for the faintest echo ‘from over the river.’

Renny’s father was a soldier, and Renny’s mother felt her own heart ache and quiver as George told her his story.  ‘Why was not George, Renny – why was not George’s father Renny’s father?’ and the answer came to her from the God of battles, but she only heard it.

Mrs. Page took George home that night – after her soldier-boy was busy with his dreams – took him home to his mother to tell the story – ‘the story,’ must it be told near every hearthstone – must it be heard going ‘mid shot and shell into every woman’s heart in the nation?

The morning following, very early in the late October morning, came the woman to make Renny’s uniform, but Rennyh was up before her, and he had spread out the bright material and its gay trimmings on the table; and looked at them with admiring eyes.

‘Come, Master Renny,’ said the woman, taking out her measuring line, ‘I am ready.”

‘You can go home, if you please, after mother has given you some breakfast, for I don’t want any soldier-clothes now.’

‘Why not?’ asked Mrs. Page, in astonishment at this sudden change.

‘Because, George is a dead soldier’s boy, and he hasn’t got even one warm coat to wear; please mother, take these things back again, and get something to make a lot of clothes for George, and then get them made.  I guess I can be a soldier if I don’t wear uniform; and if General Sam won’t let me, then I’ll be Renny Page right back again.  I’ve got a real soldier for a father, and I’m glad of that.’

The unmade uniform went back, and George was fitted with comfortable clothing, even two boots for his hurt feet.  Renny did not tell this story to the regiment, but somebody else did, for before the week was over, Renny was promoted still further, and ‘Captain Renny,’ in citizens dress became very popular.

A week passed away.  Saturday night came – Renny said ‘Good night, mother,’ and was on the top most stair when he heard a man ask at the door ‘Does Captain Renny Page live here?’

‘That’s me,’ shouted Renny.

‘A box for you by Adams’ express; please pay me for bringing it.’

‘Here is a letter for you, Renny,’ said Mrs. Page when she had opened the box.

Renny unfolded the letter and read, ‘For my brave soldier-boy – God bless his kind little heart.’

Mrs. Page and Renny looked beneath the cover, and Renny exclaimed, ‘A little uniform for me, just like father’s own.  Now won’t I be captain, in grand earnest?  Mother do you believe General Sam will be sorry? For this is grander than his uniform.  I hope he won’t – How sorry I am for poor George!  He hasn’t any father to be good to him.  Don’t you believe God will be his father, and send him nice things?  I am going to tell God about George this very night, and ask Him to be better to him than he is to me, because I’ve got a father down here that can see when holes come in my boots, and when I want a new jacket; a father here and a Father up in heaven – isn’t it nice? And this uniform besides;’ and Renny Page went slowly up the stairs to his bed, carrying his present hugged tight to his heart, that beat faster and faster with gladness, until sleep came and wrapped him in one of her rosiest dreams, wherein he dreamed that George came to live with them, and got a uniform, just like his own, that nobody found out who sent. –{Merry’s Museum.

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, May 31, 1862, p. 2

An Angel

BY MARY A. DENNISON.

A little pauper boy sat down on the curbstone, and tried to think.  His feet were bare, red and cold; but never mind that.  The chill air penetrated his ragged garments; but never mind that.  He wanted to think.  Who are these people passing him, looking so warm and comfortable?  What did it mean that they should be happy and cheerful, and he so sad?  None of them had such heavy hearts; that he was sure of.  He looked up into the cold blue sky.  What was it, and who lived up there? – Somebody had said once that God would take care of him.  Where was God?  Why didn’t he take care of him?  Oh! If he could only see God for one little minute, or the angel that the good men told him of when his mother died!  Did folks ever see God?  Did they ever see angels?

An organ grinder came near and took his stand.  The melody he played lightened the little boy’s heart somewhat; but it didn’t warm him; it didn’t make him less hungry.  He kept shivering in spite of the music, and he felt so all alone, so despairing!  Then the organ grinder passed away; he never heeded the little child sitting on the curbstone, he had so many things to think of.  The carriages passed by, and the carts, and a company of soldiers; but it was all a dumb show to him – he was trying to think; with such a dull pain at his heart. – Presently three or four coarse looking boys gathered behind him, and winked and laughed at each other.  In another moment, the youngest gave a thrust, and over went the poor little homeless child into the gutter.  One scream, one sob of anguish, as he gathered himself up, and looked after the boys, now flying away with shouts of mirth.  Oh! How cruel it seemed in them – how cruel!  The little hungry boy walked on, sobbing, and shivering to himself.  He didn’t know what he was walking for, or why he was living.  He felt out of place – a poor, forlorn spirit that had lost its way – a bruised reed that any one might break – a little heart so tender that a look was anguish, how much more a blow!

The little boy stood at last near the corner of a street.  An apple stand, at which he gazed with longing eyes, not far off, was tended by a cross looking old man.  There were cakes on the stand, and the poor little mouth of the homeless child watered as he saw one boy after another deposit his penny, and take his cake.  He had no penny, and though there was hunger in his eyes, the cross-looking old man never offered him a morsel.

The tempter came.  The old man’s back was turned.  A vile boy at his side – at the side of the homeless child – nudged his elbow.  “You take one,” he whispered; I’ll give you half.”

The little child gazed at him steadily.  He saw something in the bleared eyes that made him shrink; something that set his heart beating.

“I tell you, hook one,” whispered the boy; “I won’t tell, and we’ll go away and eat it.”

“I don’t want to steal,” said the homeless child.

“Oh! You fool,” muttered the brutal tempter, and smote him in the eyes, his heavy hand dealing a blow that sent the poor little child against the wall, his whole frame quivering with anguish.  The terrible blow had almost blinded him for a moment.  A great sob came up in his throat, “Oh! What have I done to be treated so?”  There never, never was a God, or He would not let him suffer so, and that because he refused to be wicked.  I don’t believe that ever a man in his deadliest bereavements suffered more than that sad little child.  His heart was literally swelling with grief, and though he could not reason about it, he felt as if there was a great and sore injustice somewhere.

He started to cross the street.  A dark, blinding pain still made his poor temples ring.

“Back! back!  Good heavens!  The child is under his feet!  Back! back!”

“Oh! Mamma, it’s our horses run over a poor little boy.  Oh! Mamma, mamma!”

“Is he hurt much, coachman?”  The woman is pale as ashes.  “Yes, he is hurt badly. – Take him right in; don’t wait; carry him right in and up stairs.  It was your carelessness.  The child shall [be] tended to.”

There is no anguish now.  Perhaps God saw he had borne all he could, and so took the poor little broken heart there to heal.  How very white and quiet!  “Oh! A sweet face – a sweet sweet face!” murmured the woman, bending over the boy; and tears fell upon his forehead, but he did not feel them.

“Oh, the poor little boy!” sobs Nelly, “the poor little boy!  I wish he had kept on the side-walk; I wish he had staid at home with his mother.”

Alas! in this world there was no mother to keep him.

The doctor came, said he was not dead, but would very likely die.  There was a hospital near.  The poor thing had better be sent there.  But the good woman would not allow that.  She would care for him herself, she said.  He had been injured by one of her horses, and she felt it was her duty to attend to him.  Besides it was likely the child had no mother.  Such a boy as he, with a face so sweet and girlish, so pure and loveable, would never been sent on the streets like that, if he had a mother.  Besides (and her tears fell) there was a little mound not yet green over just such a child.  No, no; it was not in her heart to put the poor wounded boy away.  Let him stay whether he lived or died.

The weary, weary days passed on.  One morning, the little boy opened his dim blue eyes, but he did not know himself.  His glance fell wearily on his hands.  There were white bands around his wrists, with ruffles on them.  The bed was so snowy white, too, and a crimson light fell over everything.

“Dear God! I am in heaven,” Murmured the child.  “Yes, God will take care of me now.”

What visions of loveliness glanced forth from the shadow behind the bed?  The beaming eyes looked love and [gladness] upon him.

“Oh! yes there is an angel!” he said softly.  “They won’t knock me over again; they won’t want me to steal apples here; and perhaps I shall never die again.  Now, I want to see my mother.”

“My dear boy, are you better this morning?” asked a low, soft voice.

He turned slowly, wearily.

“Is it mother?” he murmured.

“Oh! yes,” and there were quick sobs and tears, “yes my little child, I will be your mother, and you shall be my son.  Will you love me dearly?”

“Heaven! No darling, it is earth; but God sent you here to our hearts, and you shall be loved and cared for.  See here is a little sister and you will be very happy with her.  Kiss him, Nelly”

Her rosy lips touched his pale ones, and a heavenly smile lighted up his face.  The past was not forgotten, but it was gone.  No more mouldy crusts, oaths, harsh words and blows.  No more begging at basement doors, and looking half famished envy to a dog gnawing a bone in the streets.  No more fear of rude children who never knew where their own hearts lay; no more sleeping on door steps and listening in terror to the drunken quarrels of the vicious and depraved.

Yes the past was gone; and in the rosy future were love, home, even God and the angels.  Certainly sweet spirits had guarded that child and guided him out of seeming evil into positive good.  Surely henceforth he would put his hand trustingly in theirs and turn his face heavenward.  Yes, it was so to be.  The dear teachable child – a jewel picked from the mire, a brand snatched from the burning – was yet to illume the dark paths of this world with his holy, heaven-like teaching.  Like a dove he was to go forth over the waters and find the olive branch with which to garland his glad tidings.  Blessings, then on all who hold their arms out toward needy little children, making their homes arks of refuge!  Beautiful stars shall they have in their crowns of rejoicing, for surely there is no jewel brighter in the world, and perhaps in all eternity, than the soul of a little child. –{Wesleyan Methodist Magazine

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, May 24, 1862, p. 1